As the clouds began to form, and the sky began to darken, I went inside.
Rain had arrived.
Starting with only a few drops, eager to leave their atmospheric palace, Rain had built up to a decent drizzle, descending from Heaven on the wings of the breeze.
Many beings welcome Rain. The grasses, shifting and swaying, rustle with glee as they are bombarded with her delightful elixir. The old grandfather trees knew better than to sway, but Rain knows they have their own way of expressing thanks. Old and haggard Dirt, who is used to being humbled, accepts her drink as he becomes the playful and messy Mud that every child loves.
While Rain knew and appreciated all those beings that grew and danced and changed because of her presence, she did not look upon them this time. Instead,
Rain caressed the window.
“Dear,” said the Rain, “why do you now reject me?”
“I have been changed.” answered the window.
“What happened to you?” asked Rain. “There was a time when you accepted every drop I offered as you soaked me in. Now, you accept not even a single one of my drops. Tell me, what happened?”
“Man.”
“Oh my darling, do not be so curt with me!”
The drops of Rain began to swell, the ruckus of the storm growing louder as she longed for the window’s embrace.
Rain implored once again, “Tell me, what has happened to you, my dear?”
The window thought for a moment before he spoke.
“My earliest memory is that of a great furnace. I, a window, was born of a grand flame.”
Rain wept. The streets had almost flooded before she collected herself. She took a deep breath of Wind.
“Did you know, window, that you used to have a soul?”
“I had reasoned as much,” replied the window, “but I have no recollection of it. Who was I?”
Rain answered as she pitter-pattered on the window.
“You,” pointing at it, “used to be Sand.”
The window did not respond.
Rain continued. “My darling Sand is beautiful. He decorates the shore, gathers up into dunes, and brings me great delight. When I arrive, he lets every drop of mine seep deep within him. I love him very much, and he loves me.”
Rain could’ve kept weaving her song-basket of love for Sand, but she knew she was not speaking with Sand. She was talking to the window.
Rain was a persistent woman, but she was no fool. She knew no amount of song, swoon, or sweetness could ever cajole the window to herself. Besides, it was a window.
Not her beloved Sand.
Rain sighed a mist so thick that the cricket could not see the blade of grass upon which he stood.
Rain left, leaving her lament in the fog, determined to see her beloved, her darling Sand.
